Otorni Luner The Blues Brothers in Númenor
by Gildir
Summary: What if the Blues Brothers had lived in Númenor? A crossover poem. Rated T for tragedy, character death.


**Otorni Lúner (The Blues Brothers in Númenor)**

A poem in _ann-thennath_

After writing this poem I read RobinRocks' "Soul Man" and its author's note, which mentions that "_The Blues Brothers_ is a niche market" and speculates on how many reviews would be written on his poem. My poem may appeal to an even narrower "niche market", being a combination of two fictional universes which possibly have relatively few fans in common. Therefore, like RobinRocks, I am very curious as to how my poem will be received.

"_Ann-thennath_" is the poetic form of "Light as Leaf on Linden Tree", the poem about Beren and Lúthien chanted by Strider on Weathertop in _The Fellowship of the Ring_. Needless to say, I own neither the Blues Brothers nor the world created by J.R.R. Tolkien.

"How stories do repeat themselves!" – Sam Gamgee, _Sauron Defeated_ (J.R.R. Tolkien), p. 125

In Númenor the land that drowned  
Beneath the waters of the sea  
There were two brothers who, renowned,  
Amazed the people listening:  
They kept the Elven-music free  
When he who had been falsely crowned  
Made laws to ban the melody  
Of light and beauty glistening.

One brother was both tall and thin,  
The other was both short and stout,  
But when the music would begin  
They moved together merrily.  
They sang of joy to make you shout,  
They sang of sorrow, hate and sin,  
They sang of love and thirst and doubt:  
They sang the blues, primarily.

A ray of sun upon the hill,  
A floating feather, or a child  
Whose dance has more delight than skill:  
Thus was the dance of Andalun.  
His brother played upon the wild  
And piercing mouth-harp, sad and shrill;  
And each had been an orphan child  
Till Andalun met Eldalun.

Although they had no friends or kin,  
They had the music and the words:  
They pierced their fingers' tender skin  
And swore an oath of brotherhood.  
Though Pharazôn sent men with swords  
To ban the tongues of Elven-kin,  
They would not sing with Mannish words:  
Thus was their law of brotherhood.

Upon a horse named Rochalun  
(Name given in forbidden tongue)  
They rode beneath the argent moon  
Across the fields of Númenor.  
They sang and danced and played among  
The hidden Faithful; Rochalun  
Would carry them where still were sung  
The songs of Elves in Númenor.

The Golden King set price of gold  
Upon the heads of Andalun  
And Eldalun; for months untold  
They journeyed fast and warily.  
A horseman bold was Eldalun;  
Untroubled by the king of gold,  
He stole his silver serving spoon  
And rode off singing merrily.

But soon the men of Pharazôn  
Pressed hard upon the brothers' trail;  
The two musicians stood alone  
Against the evil humans' war.  
They would not let the music fail;  
Despite the power of Pharazôn  
They rode upon a hidden trail  
And reached the coast of Númenor.

"My brother, Rochalun must swim,"  
The tall one said, "to reach the land  
Where Elves are singing, far and dim,  
Upon the shores of Middle-earth.  
And maybe we shall find a band  
To sing with there." "A horse can't swim  
Across the ocean to the land  
Of vast and distant Middle-earth!

"Oh, Eldalun, you've gone too far  
This time, and it will not be long  
Before the Island of the Star  
Is far behind and lost to us.  
But you are right: the Elven-song  
Must still be played in lands afar,  
And we must reach those beaches long,  
No matter what the cost to us."

'Tis said he was a magic horse,  
Fair Rochalun; he swam away,  
And by the stars he steered his course  
Across the ocean flowingly.  
Tall Eldalun felt no dismay  
Bestriding his beloved horse;  
His brother sat behind; one day  
He slipped and drowned, unknowingly.

But Eldalun looked not behind  
Until the land of Lindon fair  
Was visible; his voice combined  
With that of mighty Rochalun  
In shouts of joy. "We've gotten there,  
The chase forever left behind!"  
The horse's silver back was bare,  
No Andalun on Rochalun.

Perhaps the sheer desire to sleep  
Had made his grip become more loose,  
So that he slipped into the deep  
Without alerting Eldalun.  
Perhaps to keep his body loose  
He took a drink that was too deep,  
And now no more would sing the blues  
Beside his brother Eldalun.

Upon the margin of the land  
The ancient minstrels walk and sing,  
Tall Maglor with the withered hand  
And he who made the Elven-runes;  
But sadder far than anything  
Is now the song upon the sand  
Of he who can no longer sing  
With Andalun the Elven-tunes.

_In memory of John Belushi_


End file.
